


The Language of Dragons

by buttcatcher



Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, its pretty obvious to everyone but geralt what jaskier is, not gonna spoil it by tagging it but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: Nothing surprises Jaskier anymore.Or, he silently corrects himself as he lets his legs dangle off the ledge on the very mountain his heart had been shattered on, hethoughtnothing could surprise him.Of course Geralt had to be the exception to that rule. He always had been, had caught Jaskier off guard in a way nothing else had in centuries the moment their eyes met in that damned tavern in Posada.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499
Comments: 32
Kudos: 1087





	The Language of Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I was rewatching some Game of Thrones episodes and I kept thinking about that scene where Drogon shows up in Mereen and jumps off that building thing and lands beside Daenerys for her to ride him and I was like aw yeah

Nothing surprises Jaskier anymore. 

Or, he silently corrects himself as he lets his legs dangle off the ledge on the very mountain his heart had been shattered on, he _thought_ nothing could surprise him.

Of course Geralt had to be the exception to that rule. He always had been, had caught Jaskier off guard in a way nothing else had in centuries the moment their eyes met in that damned tavern in Posada. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

What a way to be surprised, indeed. Geralt’s mind was a maze of twists and turns Jaskier had secretly delighted in navigating, though he supposes this one he should have seen coming. 

That knowledge didn’t make being tossed aside after twenty years of friendship sting any less.

“I can smell your sadness from the other side of the mountain.” A soft voice behind him speaks wisely as a man Jaskier knows well steps around the outcropping of stones keeping him hidden from view and carefully sits beside the bard with a grunt. 

Jaskier can feel Borch’s wise eyes on him without having to turn his gaze to the side to meet them. 

Silence falls between the two as Jaskier gazes out into the vast forest of hills and trees below them, closes his stinging eyes as a gentle breeze tousles his hair like a lover’s touch. The sensation was almost enough to distract from the way his chest felt like it was split in two, his entire body itching to scream his pain so every creature, rock, and blade of grass around them would know just how much he was hurting.

A quiet sigh leaves the man beside him. “You didn’t tell him.” It’s not so much a question as a fact stated aloud, no inflection in the words but the meaning behind them clear as day.

Jaskier gives an ugly scoff as he catches sight of the dwarves making their way back down the rocky mountain side far, far away from their perch. “Tell me, Borch, do you truly believe that would have made a difference?”

A hum is the only answer he gets from the dragon. 

He really shouldn't expect anything more than that from the man who dragged them all up here in the first place, though Jaskier knows he would have followed Geralt to the ends of the earth without the Witcher having to say a word. 

Like Borch, Jaskier was all too familiar with Destiny and the fickle whims she subjected creatures to. Geralt and himself were no exception.

“The knowledge might have forced him to open doors he hadn’t thought could open. Tell me; has he never noticed you don’t age?”

Jaskier feels an itch under his skin he’s been ignoring for the past twenty years. “Geralt wouldn’t notice a Chort if it hit him upside the head.” Try as he might to remain nonchalant, the bitter words leave an acrid taste in his mouth not unlike the taste of smoke. “I’ve sung his praises in every corner of the Continent for the past twenty years; I’ve helped him bathe and stitch his wounds; I saved him from monsters he was too run down to kill, and I stayed by his side after every time he abandoned me to go to her, yet _I’m_ the one he says is shoveling shit into his life.”

Borch remained silent as Jaskier word vomited at him, the sun’s rays baking his skin and leaving behind a subtle warmth he truly wished he could enjoy. 

But all he felt was cold.

A sudden weathered hand on his shoulder knocked Jaskier out of his self appointed staring contest with his crimson trousers enough to look over at the dragon. Wisdom lined his eyes and pulled at his skin, years of life in a world where he had to hide only making him appear more fatherlike, more soothing than Jaskier cared to admit. 

After all, out of the two of them, Jaskier was the elder.

“Don’t occupy your mind with those thoughts,” Borch said kindly, “we are too old to focus on what could have been instead of what will be, Julian. Even beings like ourselves have our own Destiny.”

A deep sigh rattled inside his chest before Jaskier blew it out in a rush that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

*

A year passed before Jaskier knew it, and then another. Eight seasons came and went as he traveled the Continent alone with only his lute and a bone deep ache for company. Gone were the songs of the White Wolf he prided himself in creating and playing; gone were the praises he spoke on the witcher’s behalf; gone were the days he felt like being ‘Jaskier’.

If there was one constant about being a bard, it was that there was always an audience no matter where he went. 

Forest creatures, humans in taverns, wildflowers poking through heavily traveled paths; everyone and anything could appreciate a strum or two of his lute as he forced himself to put distance between the mountain and man who had forced him away. 

The catch was, of course, that the spark for creating music left him as soon as his muse had.

“I’m terribly sorry, my lovely lady, but I seem to be coming down with a throat sickness. Won’t be able to sing for the next few days at least.” He waved off yet another patron of this backwater village who requested he play his claim to fame, _Toss a Coin,_ as he busied himself with throwing back as much alcohol as he could get his hands on.

Getting himself drunk always took about a tavern and a half’s worth of shitty ale but he was determined to at least get a good buzz going before he wandered out into the night. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken heading to this town reached his ears and while there was nothing more he wanted to do than get in Geralt’s face and tell him every single way he had mistreated Jaskier, nothing he said would make a difference if Geralt didn’t want to see him, and he had made that quite clear back when he had chosen to blame him for his own mistakes.

Jaskier told himself his heart was the reason he felt worse than he ever had in his long, long life. If he hadn’t fallen for an essentially immortal asshole with the emotional capabilities of a doorknob, then perhaps he would still be proud of who he was, of _what_ he was. 

Perhaps that was why he hadn’t noticed a ragtag group of tavern goers follow him out into the woods, their steps careful to fall in line with his own so he wouldn't pick up on the signs he was being tailed until they were on him.

Or, well, _would_ have been, if the thug who decided to try to hit him from behind didn’t smell like a pile of manure baking in the Toussaint sun. It was easy enough to whip around and grab the arm holding the smithing hammer and squeeze until a loud crack echoed through the trees, moonlight catching on the golden sleeve of his doublet and lighting his eyes in a way that must have terrified the overweight man in front of him, for he quickly dropped the hammer and fled into the forest clutching his bent arm.

His followers didn’t seem to get the message that he wasn’t simply a lone bard wandering around alone at night, for the remaining three townspeople descended upon him like Harpies on Geralt.

And wasn’t that a thought.

It was easy enough to incapacitate them so he couldn't be followed. A simple kick to the knees of one man was enough to blow out his kneecaps and cripple him with a shout; a man who looked to be the tavern owner’s son had his own dagger turned on him with the ease of swatting a fly, the blade sinking into his gut without resistance. 

The third man put up more of a fight than the other three had. And, as it would seem, adored the sound of his own voice.

“You’re the Witcher’s Bard.” He sneered as he dropped into a defensive stance, kudgel clutched tightly in his hands, uncaring as his two incapacitated friends writhed on the ground in agony. 

Jaskier simply adjusted the strap of his lute with an air of indifference, resituating the elven instrument he had been gifted more properly against his back. “I’m _a_ bard, and the witcher _was_ someone I considered a friend.”

His soon to be attacker simply sneered. “You don’t fool me.”

Rays of moonlight cast the forest path in a silver light as clouds shifted lazily in the sky, bathing Jaskier in an ethereal glow. “I have nothing to gain from attempting to fool you.”

“You’re a bard. Bard’s lie.”

A wry smile stretched Jaskier’s lips as he took in the man standing a few feet in front of him, his form lanky and obviously underfed. Knowing the other struggled to find enough to eat did not make the situation different; if the man moved to attack, Jaskier would be forced to retaliate. 

“You will be surprised to learn that I do not lie. The truth can be hidden in a number of ways, be it intentional omission or otherwise, but I do not lie.”

It seems his continued effort to provide the other man chances to turn and flee like the first thug had only served to make his assailant more angry, for he changed his grip on his kudgel and began to close the distance between them. “Nilfgaard has a price on the head of your witcher, but I’m sure they would appreciate the head of his accomplice just as much.” That was all the warning Jaskier got before the man sprang into action, a sloppy attempt to run him through easily thwarted by Jaskier sidestepping the assault.

“I do not wish to harm humans.” Was what Jaskier stated as the man quickly regained his bearings and charged again, this time with a dagger he had kept stashed in his belt.

Unluckily for him, Jaskier also stashed a dagger in his belt, and it was all too easy to run the glinting blade across the thug’s jugular as the man took a swing and missed, his momentum carrying him enough for Jaskier’s dagger to slice him enough that his head only barely managed to stay attached to his shoulders by a few pieces of sinew before dropping to the ground in a heap. 

Pale moonlight bathed the forest path in glittering pools of blood, blood as red as the anger Jaskier felt roaring like a fire in his chest. The fact that these mortals had decided to kill him because of what Geralt had brought upon himself, what with his claiming of the Law of Surprise, angered him like nothing else.

Even _Jaskier_ wasn’t dumb enough to give Destiny free reign of his life like that, and yet here he was, being attacked as though it weren’t enough that he burned himself from the inside out with his own heartbreak every day for the past two years.

All because Nilfgaard wanted Geralt’s abandoned Child Surprise.

“Are you happy now?” Jaskier cried out to the full moon, throwing his bloodied dagger to the dirt as he heaved a deep breath and tried to calm the itching he felt rippling under his skin, the desire to shed his mortal appearance nearly nauseating. “Have I not suffered enough? Have I not _given_ enough?!” He demanded in a shout as he hastily wiped splattered gore off his golden doublet and ran a shaking hand back through his hair.

It almost felt as though the moon was laughing at him, for nothing around him changed. Not a single breeze rusted the leaves; not a single sound surrounded him as he quickly wiped away the tears he could feel beading along the edges of his eyes with a quick swipe of his dirty sleeve.

“Have I not been punished enough already?” He asked this time in a whisper as he hung his head and forced his feet to carry him forward down the deserted path, away from the bejeweled dagger Geralt had gifted him around their sixth year of friendship, the weight of the item Jaskier had yearned to be some sort of courting gift finally too much to keep. 

His footsteps grinding the dirt road beneath his feet were the only sound echoing in the forest as a pair of golden catlike eyes watched his retreating back from afar, the owner of said eyes allowing their gaze to linger before disappearing back into the foliage.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a plan for this I swear


End file.
